Hidden Talents

Hell, there aren't any hippies left. The last one died years ago.”
    “I'm not so sure about that,” Caleb said. “I think there've always been hippies of one kind or another. They just go under different names with each new generation. Bohemians, beatniks, dropouts, free spirits, freaks, whatever.”
    “I'm no freak.” Blade's expression turned ominous.
    “Of course not,” Caleb said blandly. “You're obviously as normal as everyone else in this town.”
    “Damn right,” Blade muttered, mollified.
    “We took Serenity and raised her as best we could,” Montrose said. “We all took turns teaching her stuff. I taught her music and how to change the oil in her car. Jessie taught her art.”
    “I taught her philosophy and mathematics,” Quinton said. “Ariadne taught her how to cook and how to run a small business.”
    “Julius taught her literature and poetry,” Blade said.
    Caleb stared at him. “He did?”
    “Yeah. Julius likes to read,” Blade said. “He also taught her how to drive.”
    Quinton looked at Caleb. “We all had a hand in her education. We all had something to teach her. But the truth is, she gave us more than we ever gave her.”
    Caleb smiled faintly. “A sense of purpose? Of meaning in your lives? Something important to do? A feeling of commitment and responsibility?”
    Montrose nodded. “Yeah, something like that.”
    Quinton's mouth curved but he said nothing.
    Blade scowled at Caleb. “How'd you know all that?'
    “Just a lucky guess.” Caleb looked around the circle. “I'm still waiting to hear what you brought me up here to tell me.”
    “It's simple, Ventress.” Montrose took another slug of his beer. “We're all part of Serenity's family so we figure we've got a right to ask some questions.”
    “About me?”
    “Yeah. About you,” Blade said. “Seems to us you been payin' a lot of attention to Serenity lately.”
    Quinton cleared his throat. “It has become clear to us that her relationship with you is far more significant and measurably more intense than the one she had with that idiot of a sociologist six months ago.”
    “Maybe even more serious than what she had with that guy who came here after he lost his family in a plane crash,” Montrose added.
    Quinton looked at Caleb. “We therefore feel it is incumbent upon us to make a few inquiries.”
    “I'll be damned.” Caleb settled himself more comfortably against the rock at his back. “Beneath all the picturesque individualism, you guys are as old-fashioned and conservative as a bunch of small-town farmers, aren't you? You brought me up here to ask me what my intentions are.”
    “Cut the crap,” Blade ordered. “Just tell us straight out if you're foolin' around with Serenity or if you're serious about her.”
    “If I tell you that I'm merely toying with her affections, and have absolutely no serious intentions whatsoever, are you going to tie me hand and foot, weight me down with a chunk of cement, and drop me into one of these pools?”
    Blade lifted one heavy shoulder. “Sounds good to me.”
    “She's one of us,” Quinton said quietly. “The first kid ever actually born right here in Witt's End. We don't want her hurt.”
    “I don't intend to hurt her.” Caleb's hand tightened around the beer bottle. “Christ almighty, don't you understand? That's the last thing I want.”
    The other three contemplated him in silence. Blade and Montrose finished their beer and put the bottles back in the carton.
    “What do you want?” Quinton finally asked.
    Caleb looked deeply into the pool. “I want her.”
    It felt good to say the words aloud. For some reason the verbal declaration made him feel more centered, a little more connected to the world.
    “Wanting her isn't good enough,” Quinton said softly.
    Caleb spread the fingers of his left hand on his thigh. “I'll take care of her. I give you my word on it.”
    No one said anything for a long while after that. Caleb was vaguely aware of the passing of time, but he felt no sense of urgency to leave the warm cavern. He drank his beer slowly and watched the vapor form and dissolve above the hot spring pool.
    “Gettin' late,” Blade said eventually. “Reckon I'll be on my way. Got to make my rounds.” He rose and unbuckled a small flashlight from the array of equipment that decorated his belt. He handed it to Caleb. “Here. You might need this to find your way back down the path.”
    “Thanks.” Caleb thrust the flashlight into the